


Los Pequeños Ayudantes del Diablo

by Bobblychicken



Category: Cars (Pixar Movies), Planes (Movies)
Genre: Aircraft, Airplanes, Disney, Disney's Planes, Fanfiction, Gen, Living Machines, living aircraft, planes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-18
Updated: 2019-11-01
Packaged: 2020-12-21 13:16:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21075506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bobblychicken/pseuds/Bobblychicken
Summary: And now for something completely different… Just kidding. Planes fanfiction snippety doo-dad detailing my headcanon on how Ned and Zed met their ol’ buddy ol’ pal Rip and went on to become known to the world as the Twin Turbos.





	1. Episode 1

The Reno Championship Air Races. The finale of the pylon racing season across all classes. Jets, Biplanes, T-6s, Formula and Sporting planes, and Unlimited Warbirds, all flying in select heats by pole time over the course of three days for the largest purses of the season for each class. The silence of the desert hills surrounding the Stead Airport was now replaced with the droning and thundering of aircraft engines. Star athletes from all over the world were here, with some high-class pedigrees, but there were less savory goings on under the cover of the noise and crowds, slinking around in among the pits. Two little airplanes, scarcely bigger even than biplanes, prowled through the crowds in separate but coordinated patterns, using their identical appearances as sort of a form of passive camouflage. Both planes were Zivko/MXS halfbreeds, and had the same exact same beat up, dirty blue and yellow livery apart from their tail numbers. And they were twin brothers.

Born small, one right after the other, they were the only two in their litter, an unusually small number for both their parents’ models. Though they were of mixed parentage, their small litter size and low birth weight, despite being carried to term, was more likely due to the family being extremely poor. While otherwise always being able to afford at least enough to where they never went hungry before, it was not enough to keep up with the demands of pregnancy, the lack of nutrition continuing to take it’s toll during nursing, further stunting their growth. Their poor mother was left weak and sickly by the time her two proplings were weaned, never fully recovering, and their father’s conditioning had also suffered, deferring to his mate for most of the food that could be had. While their father would rather starve than see his children or their mother go hungry, their mother was just as stubborn toward her mate going without as well, leading to a lot of arguments. 

However hard they struggled, it was never in front of the children, and they made sure that there was no doubt in their little ones’ minds that they were so very wanted and cherished. Things improved once they were old enough to fend for themselves more or less, and both parents could work to bring in more money, but one day, they left for work, and they didn’t come back. At first, the twins weren’t worried. It wasn’t all that unusual that one or both parents to be gone for a whole day or even two, but as the days went by they began to worry, and soon they were running out of food. After a week on their own, they began to understand that their parents were not coming back, and, once being alerted to the dust trail of a caravan of state officials headed down the road toward them, they made the decision to leave their family’s home and flee before they could arrive. They were only ten years old, but that was still old enough to know that an orphanage in Torreón was the last place you wanted to be. 

For the next few years, they slept where they could, scrounging for food or just stealing it. They had felt bad at first, because they knew that their parents wouldn’t have wanted that, but in order to keep from being picked up, they just couldn’t trust that anyone that they could work for under the table wouldn’t report them. However, after long, they didn’t feel so bad, and then, not long after that, it soon became second-nature. As it turned out, being identical twins was quite a boon to their way of living. You could effectively be in two places at once, confounding any eye-witness reports on the rare occasions that either of them were ever accused, so they were careful never to be seen together. That being said, things being the way they were in Durango at the time, it did not take long for this attribute to catch the eyes of some rather unscrupulous individuals, and soon the two were heavily involved in some very adult activities. Their recruitment by La Cola del Escorpión took them a lot of places, which is how they eventually got to America, and was the reason that they were here, now, at the air races.

Los Escorpiones were not a drug gang, though they partook enough when occasions called for it. However, they did love to steal. They lived to steal. When any opportunity to lift something presented itself, whether it actually be worth something or not, they took it, and then they’d drink in the stung, flabbergasted looks of their victims on the news like a fine wine. Now permanently based out of Las Vegas, Nevada, the pickings were never slim, and now that the two aircraft in the group were big enough to fly, the gang easily had a firm handle on everything coming in and out of the entire state. Despite how common and high-profile air racing events were in Nevada, Los Escorpiones generally ignored them. They preferred big jobs; heists of cargo and the like. Only after much begging by the brothers did they deploy them to this year’s championship races, thinking that it might be a nice joke at least for one or two of the racers to come back after a hard race to find one of their pretty trophies missing, having been stuck up on their own shelf. Being terribly bored with their limited use up to now, the two aircraft had been champing at the bit. 

The others in the gang had worried. Neither planes were the smartest, but they did make up for their lack of brains with enthusiasm and determination once their loyalty was won over, and their teamwork was uncannily impeccable. Considering the size of the event, and that their models were appropriate to where they could even be taken as racers, the gang’s head agreed to let them go, and so here they were sneaking around the tents for something shiny to bring back to the boss. The older one, although only older by about twenty minutes, waited casually in the crowd, watching the jets race overhead, until he heard his brother’s slightly muffled shout call from several yards away. 

“¡Mano!” he called, something glittering brightly in his teeth, “¡Entiendo! ¡Vamonos!”

The two beat hasty, but separate retreats, exiting at opposite sides of the event before regrouping quite a ways away from any witnesses and taking off together, blitzing away over the barren desert.

“What did you get?” asked the older twin, whose tail was adorned with the number zero.

“Check it out!”

The younger twin, distinguished by two zeroes on his tail, accelerated slightly ahead so that his brother could see what was in his mouth. 

“That’s pretty, right, but you were supposed to steal a trophy,” the first brother admonished. 

“Yeah, but this has real jewels in it! Diamonds even!” he muffled through his teeth where he firmly but gently had the chain gripped, “Way worth more than a stupid trophy, right?”

“Yeah, I guess Tito should be happy enough with that then,” the older twin said, “Probably give it to one of his lady friends, I guess.”

The next few minutes were flown in silence, until the first twin felt a prickling as the ampulae over the rear half of him began firing up and quickly spreading toward the front of his frame. 

“…Uh, Bro?”

By the time he heard his brother call out to him nervously, instinctual alarms of sickening fear were already lighting up in his brain.

“Bro?!” 

The growing, high-pitched urgency in his voice, hit him about the same time that the noise of a rather beastly aircraft engine was rapidly getting louder and louder, then he heard his brother squeal. He was the next to scream when he’d nearly been clipped out of the sky by a much larger aircraft as his brother veered away and the other plane pulled up after him. When he’d righted himself, he turned to see his brother flying for his life as he was chased by a truly massive P-51 Mustang, over twice either of their lengths and easily several times their weight, and apparently, much, much faster. 

“¡MANO!” the younger brother shrieked in utter panic and terror, “¡POR FAVOR, AYÚDAME!”

The acid green and black checker-marked livery of the plane that chased him was reminiscent of some cunning, scaled creature, and the first twin couldn’t help but think by the furor of his pursuit that this Mustang was as poisonous as he looked. 

“Serpiente grande…” he muttered warily before hauling aft after both planes.

It was quite the effort trying to get in between the two, his engine running in the upper reaches of its RPMs as he dove and plunged, his actions only throwing off and deterring their attacker for mere seconds before he was glued to his brother’s tail again. After two or three failed attempts at knocking him off his brother’s course, the green and black plane then turned his attention onto him, apparently with the intent of ridding himself of the annoyance so that he could finish what he’d started with his main target. It was obvious by now that the Warbird’s speed and skill as he chased them so doggedly had meant that clearly they had just stolen from the wrong racer. Although they had the larger plane beat as far as maneuverability, so superior was his torque and horsepower that it was only enough to allow them to just barely get out of the way of being shredded. The younger twin pulled up sharply, and the other plane’s nose, literally just feet away, followed his exact flight path right at his tail. It was at that point that they realized there would be no escape. 

“¡Eres tú el que está buscando!” the first twin yelled to his brother, “Lo que sea que tengas, ¡déjalo!”

The younger twin did as he was told, dropping the piece of jewelry, watching it glitter as it fell, but their last-ditch effort was in vain, as in the second-lapse of concentration was enough to where the P-51 was able to clip him into a tailspin, continuing to follow him to the ground. 

“¡Zed!” the older brother cried as he dove down after them.

Managing to catch up to his brother right as he’d managed to level out, the two were now forced to land on the hot, hard-packed desert floor. They had barely just begun to apply their breaks before the other plane was upon them. It was just as terrifying in its tenacity on the ground as in the air, and it was not long before the huge plane had the both of them pinned to the ground together underneath it. The two young planes screamed and cried, begging and pleading in Spanish through the savage fury of their attacker’s engine as it snarled down on them, teeth bared just inches from their canopies.

XXxx

Yes, they had definitely stolen from the wrong racer. The twins were still alive yes, but now they were both caged back in the same group of affluent tents that they had targeted. The older brother paced, looking around for any sort of escape. Their foe was currently laid out on a plush sleeping mat across from them, the big P-51 staring at them out of steely, olive colored eyes without blinking, the intentness of his gaze clashing with his overall air of indolence. 

“Lo has hecho ahora, sombra (You've done it now, shadow),” the first twin muttered to Zed in an admonishing tone, “Solo tenías que robar de este. (You just had to steal from this one.)”

“No lo sabía, hermano, ¿Cómo podría haberlo sabido? (I didn't know, brother, how could I have known?)” Zed whined. 

“Está bien, pero ayúdame a encontrar una forma de salir de esto al menos (Okay but help me find a way out of here at least),” his brother said, looking around again.

“De ninguna manera (No way), Ned,” Zed answered, staring back warily at their captor, who had not taken his eyes off them, “Estamos más seguros aquí (We're safer in here).”

“¿Que pasa? (What's up?)”

“Él nos matará si tratamos de escaper (He'll kill us if we try to escape),” the younger brother said, his voice low as he quivered slightly with fear, “Su alma canta una mala canción … (His Soul sings a bad song...)”

Ned considered his twin’s words with more seriousness now, knowing that he was the more sensitive of the two to such things. Then he looked toward the checker-marked Mustang, who still had not moved, still staring with his terrible eyes that didn’t blink. He was looking at them like he was going to eat them. The older twin felt a shiver crawl across his plating. There wasn’t much to distinguish this plane as a living thing now compared to the demonstration of power and ferocity he gave them out in the desert a few hours ago. Who was he? The two brothers then turned their attention to the noise of more vehicles entering the tent. A green forklift, and two Lexus sedans had come in. The forklift went over to the P-51, who at this point had finally moved to turn toward him, and he extended one of his tines, upon which was hanging the delicate silver charm that Zed had stolen. The racing plane took it, tucking it underneath him with this landing gear, and the two turned their eyes back to their captives as the two sedans approached them. The two little planes eyed the papers they had in their hands. 

“Well,” the deep blue car began, looking over a few of them, “You boy’s have quite the impressive list of accolades here. Your notoriety is multinational it seems, too. But perhaps you’ve gotten a little too big for your bolts this time.” 

They stayed silent, expressions haughtily defiant.

“How long have you been with La Cola del Escorpión?” asked the other car, who was a dark forest green. 

More silence.

“Don’t play now,” the second car said, “We are well aware that you are very capable of speaking and understanding English; you might want to hear us out. We’ve got you dead to rights. We could easily just turn you in, and you would not be getting out anytime soon. Probably even just hand you back over to authorities in Mexico.”

“The thing is, while you may not have known it, you’ve attempted to steal something very important from our star racer here,” the blue car continued, motioning toward the green and black plane on the sleeping mat, “You’re honestly lucky to be alive right now. Fortunately for you, he’s the type to appreciate boldness, and you did give him a bit of a run for his money out there before he caught you. He likes you. He’d rather not let such fine young planes as yourselves be wasted, though you might deserve it. He would like it very much, if you would join our team instead.”

The Zivko mixes remained silent, their faces stoic through their threats and offers, except for a brief moment when they’d glanced somewhat nervously in the P-51’s direction at his mention. It was Ned that finally spoke. 

“And what’s in it for us?”

At that point there was a loud, harsh engine flutter as the checker marked plane abruptly got up from the sleeping mat, the two cars parting as he himself approached the cage now. 

“¿Tú qué sacas de esto? (What do you get out of it?)” the larger plane asked as he loomed over them, the base in his voice just as smooth and sharp as a scalpel. 

Nearly everyone in the room had checked, the twins especially, but the forklift and the two cars had nearly forgotten that their charge could speak Spanish. He’d learned and become fluent in it during the few years he’d spent living and training in Tijuana, but had not uttered a single word the entire time he’d been with Antech. 

“¿Todo lo que? (See all that?)” the Mustang continued, referencing the documents that his CEOs were holding, “Se va. (It goes away.) Quédate conmigo, y no puedes ser tocado. (Stick with me, and you cannot be touched.) Nosotros te cuidaremos. (We will take care of you.) Y todos los privilegios que vienen con esto. (And all the privileges that come with it.) ¿Tu quieres dinero? (You want money?) ¿Quieres mujeres? (You want women?) Tendrás mucho. (You'll have plenty.)”

“Y si nos negamos? (And if we refuse?)” Ned asked, sneering while his brother looked over at him in horror, “¿Qué? ¿Nos enviarás de vuelta a México? (What, you'll just send us back to Mexico?)”

“Pequeñas bestias sucias que eres… (Dirty little beasts that you are...)” the racer responded, eyes glinting as he chuckled deeply, “México no te tundra. (You're not for Mexico) Intentaste robarme. (You tried to steal from me.) O tus colas me pertenecen, o están para el infierno; no hay negar. (Your tails either belong to me, or they belong in hell; there is no refuse) O aceptas mi oferta, o te mataré. (Accept my offer, or I'll kill you.)”

The terms laid out on the table, the two smaller aircraft stood, side by side, staring up at the massive plane before them, who leered back down at the both of them with assured, hungry anticipation…


	2. Episode 2

The two brother's were quietly compliant during the ride back on the Antech courier plane, Kurtis. Whether that was due to their fear and uncertainty of their new "benefactor", whose name they'd learned was Ripslinger, or the stress of being flown for the first time in their lives, which could be rather unpleasant for any aircraft, was anyone's guess. It was a short enough flight from Reno to LA, but by the time they disembarked, the little planes were all but glued to one another in spite of Kurtis' signature baby-soft landings. This was to later cause some trouble for Porter, their chief mechanic and his assistants, as the green and black Mustang had thrown a considerable fit when the younger of the two Zivkos had started to protest pitifully when they'd tried to separate them during their health assessment. 

It had taken all of Kenny's tricks and effort to keep Zed calm when they absolutely had to be apart so that young plane's engine's anxious chittering wouldn't trigger another tantrum while waiting during Ned's turn under the airbrush, as Ripslinger had declared the two monoplanes unfit to be seen in the penthouse as they were. The only guidelines that he had given their artist was that the job be distinctly recognizable as an Antech plane, but yet with a certain flare harkening to their heritage to make them feel comfortable in their new skins, and then let him have at it. Never one to disappoint, Ned and Zed could not get enough of themselves in the mirror, their apprehension seemingly forgotten in the moment. Painstakingly stenciled patterns and designs separated a two toned paint job, green and white, with orange accenting their boots and making their number designations on their wings and tails stand out boldly, and a variation on the mask-like jet-black overlay that adorned Ripslinger's own canopy and nose. This after a full-scale maintenance and the boys were both feeling and looking like a million bucks. However they couldn't help but regret that gone was the distinct novelty and amusement of only being able be told apart by looking at their tail numbers or waiting for one of them to speak. 

The mood turned tense again on the way up to the penthouse now. The two little planes weren't exactly thrilled to learn that they would be sharing space with their captor, but as soon as they actually saw the penthouse, their worries were instantly put aside. This was opulence that their minds couldn't have even imagined as they stood gaping in the doorway. The floor plan was open and airy, the design taking great care to keep in mind that aircraft were uncomfortable with spaces that were too enclosed or where movement was restricted, yet everything was just so soft, clean, and cozy. There were chandeliers, floor lights, a massive stereo system, and a television that took up a sizable portion of one wall. There was even washers recessed back into a grotto like area near the rear of it with faucets going every which way you could want. The twin Zivko half-breeds were practically shaking with the anticipation of exploring every little gadget and nook and cranny. 

“Not bad, huh,” Ripslinger chuckled over their canopies as they turned to face him, “This is it, home sweet home. You have free access to anything and everything in here as well as out on the balcony; what's mine is now yours, but for now, you'll be restricted to this room until everything has been finalized.”

The little planes stared up at him, hearing but not entirely listening as their eyes began to slide back to where their attention was currently in surveying their new living space, and a snarl exploded from the Mustang's engine as he quickly swung around them to block their view.

“I said you do not leave this room! Understand?!” Ripslinger barked through bared teeth as the wide-eyed brothers nodded and quickly muttered their “yesses”, and he visibly relaxed, control surfaces lowering back down into a more neutral position as he resumed his cool demeanor from just seconds ago. “Good. Well, I've got business to attend to before I settle in for the night. I'll leave you to yourselves.”

They waited, still not even daring to blink their eyes until they were sure their so-called benefactor was gone and not coming back any time soon, and then excitedly went about exploring their new domicile. While Ned made a bee-line for the balcony, Zed went straight for the trio of beds over in the sleeping area. There's weren't as big, of course, but were every bit as luxuriously plush and warm as the massive sleeping mat that Ripslinger slept in. He clambered on top of one of the two designated to them, and immediately snuggled in. 

“Zed!” Ned yelled from the huge sliding glass doors that led out onto the balcony, where he was currently marveling at the huge swimming pool, “Come here! Look at this, bro! Come look at the pool!”

“No way, man, I'm stayin' right here,” was the white-fronted plane's reply, prompting Ned to then come over as he wriggled his frame down deeper into the cushioning.

“I want this bed,” Ned declared, after a moment of inspection, “You can have that other one.”

“Nuh-uh, this one's better,” Zed protested, control surfaces already beginning to raise up. 

“They're the exact same!”

“Then you go lay over there! This one's mine!”

As the rumblings of another family feud continued to escalate, Ripslinger was struggling to stay awake during an emergency board meeting called to decide what the best course of action was as far as getting their two new “team members” legit. Easier said than done in this case, as forging tail designations or pedigrees or registrations was one thing, but these two had already done time despite being freshly of legal age, and major strings would have to be pulled to be able to add them onto the company without any bad publicity. Ripslinger honestly couldn't figure out why he had to sit in on this. He'd given the word, the rest was up to them to figure out, that was their job. Winning races and staying on top was his, and these two were going to help him stay there, for better or for worse, and the worse the better for what he had planned. It had been a long time coming. Just a little longer now. When he finally arrived back at the penthouse, the lights had already been turned down, save for the floor lights that ran dimly along the walls, casting a warm glow. He paused as he passed by the twins, both fast asleep as they lay side by side over each others wings, nose to tail, on the same sleeping mat. He stared for a moment, his expression not losing any of its stoniness, then let out a soft snort from his exhausts and he continued toward his own bed, collapsing down on it with a heavy sigh. 

XXxx

A week would pass before the two Zivkos were allowed to leave the penthouse. It soon became plain that their incessant exploring and examinations were nothing more than mere youthful curiosity, and in order to both placate that, and spare Ripslinger's frayed nerves at their busy-bodying, they were given the run of nearly the whole building. Kenny, for his part, thought the pair a lovely change to the atmosphere of Antech headquarters. It was just so nice to be able to interact with planes that behaved like planes after only having Ripslinger to work with for the last few years. Despite their rap-sheets and associations, there really wasn't a truly malicious bolt in their whole frames apart from the usual antagonizing that could be expected between siblings, no matter how close they might be, and these two were very close. Prone to playing or cuddling happily together one moment and then suddenly at each others throats the next, but they were still heavily reliant on one another for reassurance, and if one didn't like someone or felt slighted, then both would take offense. In that light, they were everything two sub-adult male planes should be, and so, again, in that light, their presence clashed hard with Ripslinger's. Kenny, though even he didn't know what the P-51 had in mind as to what benefits he would get out of them, was still hopeful that bringing them in may have different, actual benefits for everyone. 

Air Racing was a much harder career than most outsiders realized, and not necessarily because of the tremendous amount of exertion and strain on their frames and engines. The life style, with its whirlwind of itineraries and so much time spent under tight, unfamiliar living conditions, no matter how comfortable otherwise, gave little quarter for the athletes' ability to express natural desires or behaviors, save for unleashing all that pent up frustration and anxiety when released onto the course. However, all racers have their limits, any good racing team knows this, and so invest in a variety of ways to counter this stress before it could turn both behaviorally and physically detrimental. The most common modality was the variety of chews available in any combination of size, shape, and texture. The strainful tension of the racing scene caused many aircraft to be prone to teeth grinding and "chopping", where subconsciously a plane would repeatedly open and close their jaws while otherwise keeping their mouths closed, making a sort of muted popping sound. The tough chews allowed a racer to act out that nervous energy in a way that wouldn't damage their teeth. Another tactic commonly employed by the more affluent of racing teams was to hire what was known in the air racing industry as a chaser. 

Aircraft are very social creatures, and even the closest relationship between a racer and their crew just can't compare with the stimulation provided by their own kind, and so the overall function of a chaser plane was to provide that extra element to better their social well-being. Other duties were escorting the raceplanes out onto the runway, and also helping with training by serving as a point of reference, as even during training it could be problematic to keep the athletes from getting too far into the zone. The limbic grounding provided by the presence of kindred spirits did wonders to steady younger, more excitable racers into their poles on the runway, and to keep them from wasting too much energy during training, warm up, and cool-down periods. 

However, as essential as they sound, chaser planes aren't too common a sight at air racing events, almost being unheard of among Unlimited racing teams, the problem being that any plane hired for this sort of role would need to essentially be more or less the same level as the racer, ability-wise, and few teams had the resources to hire a plane that would not be paying for itself with its winnings. Maintaining and feeding even the smallest of planes was costly, and so certainly no one in the Unlimited racing industry was going to pay the kind of money for a Mustang or a Sea Fury and not race them, but it was apparent to Kenny that these two little planes might just be up to the challenge. The fact that Ripslinger was clearly impressed enough to want to keep them spoke for itself. Unfortunately, it seemed that their life expectancy was shrinking ever quicker as each day passed. 

Ripslinger seemed to also find them amusing, at least for the first fifteen minutes the next morning after their first night at headquarters, and despite it being his idea and insistence that they stay in the penthouse with him, it was obvious that the two young Zivkos greatly aggravated him. For one, the effect they had on the peace and quiet he enjoyed and was accustomed to was devastating, and while no one else seemed to think anything of it, to Ripslinger, their behavior was utterly baffling, and a baffled Ripslinger was a dangerous Ripslinger. The P-51 detested looking anything but sure and confidently collected, and often found it much easier to cover himself by simply replacing unfamiliar feelings with more familiar ones, most commonly anger, which was usually followed by yelling that would then escalate to violence if the situation wasn't remedied quickly enough. Even perfectly normal, harmless behavior such as nose-touching would be met with confusion only a split second before he would snarl, swat, or snap at them without so much as a growl or curled lip in warning. Then, in response, the twins postures would appropriately reflect their apology and deferment, with noses and control surfaces lowered, at which any normal plane would either respond with acceptance or else with indifference and simply move off. Only Ripslinger was by absolutely no one's standards a normal plane.

The twins of course found his behavior just as bizarre as he found theirs. What was wrong with this plane? It was obvious that he was insane, that much was clear, but just the way he rubbed them deep in their beings as well... It was almost like he wasn't a plane at all. When they were around other planes they had an immediate, innate sense of familiarity, of belonging or home, even, that they did not get from other machine folk. An aircraft never truly felt alone in this way; they always knew when there were others of their kind around. They felt none of that kinship around this plane. What they felt from Ripslinger gave them no such feelings of grounding or oneness, only deep feelings of unease that kept them on edge from being unable to associate it with anything and therefor unable to follow it. It was hard, if not impossible, for one plane to sneak up on another, but they never knew where this Mustang was, or what he was going to do. He was unreadable and untraceable, presenting yet another danger, as one day, the brothers once again thoroughly engrossed in their chasing and rough-housing, Zed had come wheeling around from the entrance to the balcony. Ripslinger had been called away on some errand or other, so they took the chance to relax and spar freely, but he had returned earlier than he usually did, and when Zed had darted through the doorway, he practically landed on top of him. 

The reaction was immediate and violent. Ned watched his brother's tail go through the door, then the next instant there was a deafening, explosive snarl. When he'd entered the penthouse, a highly perturbed Ripslinger was bristling with control surfaces raised and frame angled down point-blank toward a mortified Zed. His engine squeaked and chittered in fear and appeasement, and just as all the times before, the more he submitted, the angrier Ripslinger seemed to get, and the angrier Ripslinger got, the more terrified Zed got, his vocalizations increasing in volume and desperation. Rushing to his brother's side, Zed was cowered down with his belly on the floor, seemingly uninjured after being tossed off, but Ned knew that was likely not to stay that way. 

"Shut up!" the agitated P-51 snapped through his teeth as his engine revved harshly. 

Zed flinched, shutting his eyes tight as he shrank back even further, and as Ripsligner's engine thrummed up again as he began to advance, Ned lept over the top of his brother.

"Lay off!" Ned shouted as he felt Ned shaking on the floor beneath him. 

The older brother tried his best to hold himself steady under the acidic glare of much larger plane as he loomed over them, but Zed could feel that Ned, too, was trembling. Ripslinger had checked somewhat at Ned's sudden intrusion, but only for a moment before bristling back up again, quivering lips riding back to reveal the sharp teeth in the back of his jaws. However, that second of hesitation was just enough for the image to penetrate into those dark places in his mind that had yet to be buried deep enough, and he froze. Neither sibling dared move as the green and black plane's expression morphed from vehemence that of wide-eyed, perhaps even fearful, derangement, his nose lowering further along with his control surfaces. 

"No... I... I don't... Stop... Stop it..." he muttered, his voice barely audible as he began to back away. 

Ned and Zed also began to back away, even more frightened than ever as they felt the fluids in their lines turn to ice as a sickening, horrid aura washed over them, but at their wary retreat, Ripslinger's demeanor began bordering on panicked desperation. 

"No! Please, I... Stop it..." he continued shakily as he then began to move back toward them, his tone growing in strength but starting to get that whiney edge to it whenever he was stressed and getting legitimately emotional, and when they continued to move away from him, his expression once again flipped, this time to full-blown hysteria as he then yelled, "STOP!"

Then the twins did the worst thing that they possibly could have done. Run. The penthouse was a cacophony of yelling, banging, screaming, crashing, and pleading from all parties as Ripslinger repeatedly charged the smaller planes. 

"Stop that! Stop it! Stop looking at me like that!" he screamed, biting and snapping and swatting at them, to of course no effect, and the more they begged and cried, the more his "warnings" turned to earnest attacks; he would kill them. 

Right when he'd finally had them both cornered, Kenny's ever uncanny timing shone through again, and the forklift seemed to materialize between the planes. His sudden appearance had provided just enough of a distraction for the twins to be quickly ushered away by a group of other pitties, the door slamming behind them while the manic screaming, roaring and snarling could still be heard over Kenny's loud placating.


	3. Episode 3

That was the last time the two brothers ever showed fear in Ripslinger's presence, although Ned made sure to always be on call to keep Zed reigned in so as to not get on the racer's nerves in other ways. However, the incident was also to mark a beginning of relative peace between the three planes at Antech headquarters, with Ripslinger responding much better in particular to Ned, likely taken aback by his unexpected display of bravado in defense of his little brother. Both twins were doing well in emulating Kenny's smooth, direct movements and blithe demeanor around their "benefactor", and were rewarded with the same bland, indifferent interactions, with no more risky faux pas or misunderstandings in social behavior, so long as they continued simply treating him like he wasn't another plane. Their presence during exercise or training sessions was even tolerated where it never was before, their little frames raising and tilting as he'd go roaring out overhead to be put through his paces on Antech's training complex.  
  
"Let me get this straight, okay," said Ned one afternoon as Ripslinger came winging around the far turn, "You want us to go up there, and let him chase us around?"  
  
"Basically, yes, eventually," was Kenny's nonplussed reply.  
  
"I don't think so."  
  
"You'll be fine. You both have really learned to read him nowadays."  
  
They weren't the only ones in need of convincing.  
  
"To hell they are having anything to do with my training!"  
  
"Look, Rip, they're bored," Kenny was arguing. "You can't just keep them cooped up indoors forever; it's not natural. It's driving them and everyone else crazy."  
  
"I don't see why not; it's never bothered me any."  
  
"Well as exceptional a plane you are, you'd be the only one," Kenny quipped, and an indignant snort blew from Ripslinger's engine at the patronizing jab, though a wry smile still colored his expression. “It was your idea to bring them into Antech; what else are we supposed to do with them if not actually make them part of the team?”  
  
“To make sure the score stays even,” was the Mustang's cryptic response.  
  
“Well whatever you were so adamant to keep them for, they aren't going to be very useful if they lose their minds from being grounded indefinitely, and if you aren't going to incorporate them into Team Antech somehow, I suggest you take them out flying then. Tomorrow, even.”  
  
“What, why me?” Ripslinger whined, “It's your job to look after them.”  
  
“And how am I supposed to do that sitting down on the ground?” Kenny deadpanned, “Besides, it's not like they're going to go running off, they're too scared that you'll kill them if they try to escape.”  
  
“I _will _kill them if they try to escape,” said Ripslinger coolly.  
  
“Well there you go then,” said the forklift decidedly, “A little leisure flight's not going to kill you.”  
  
"Well it's going to be over my dead body anyway if I'm going to play baby sitter," affirmed the P-51, "It's not happening."  
  
Kenny let out his breath in a shudder as soon as he was out of sight, heading back to his own quarters. He was so different now, after he'd won his Champion title and that meeting with the private investigators. He couldn't imagine how it must feel. Kenny was an only child, and his parents were living it up in Boca Raton. What must it be like, to be the last surviving member of your family? If he wasn't afraid of the P-51 before, he was indeed now. Although it was odd. Whatever the particulars of that final meeting, it wasn't that Ripslinger himself was broken, per se, but something surely had broken. Before he'd been all business. His wins, his charisma, the parties; it was all business. Now, there was nothing. Nothing in his expression. Nothing in his eyes. Nothing in his Soul. And nothing to hint at what he might do next. When Ned and Zed made the unfortunate decision to pick their tents to steal from, that was the most life that Kenny had ever seen in Ripslinger since that day. That's why, at least inwardly, Kenny had been most pleasantly surprised at his charge's decision to keep them instead of kill them like he thought he would. He'd taken it as a sign that he wasn't as far-gone as he seemed, that he'd taken that boldness and their skill in evading him as something that could be used. That's why the forklift had been so put out at when it came out that it was never intended for them to be an official part of the team. What the hell else did he want them for then? He almost didn't want to really know.  
  
Nevertheless, for all Ripslinger's resistance to the idea, his reluctance was finally overridden by necessity when they did in fact all three go flying a week later after the twins had played so hard in the pool that they'd splashed over half of the water out of it. After the nervous tension wore off after a short time in the air, the boys were able to relax and engage in some aerial sparring for a change. Ripslinger did not participate. He spent the hours up a few thousand feet above their 16,000-foot service ceiling, nearly hovering in the tailwinds as he casually watched them play below, wheeling, plunging, and racing one another with the same uncanny, synchronized precision displayed when he had pursued them at their first meeting. Well and truly tired out for once, that night was the first peaceful night that Antech headquarters had had almost since Ned and Zed were signed on. Funnily enough, after that, the two little planes were allowed their own turns practicing on the oval courses by themselves. The more they were allowed to participate, the calmer things got at headquarters, until Ripslinger began to openly request their presence at all exercises.  
  
The next few months were an extremely busy time. There was a lot of hustle and bustle about the Antech headquarters, especially in the few weeks leading up to opening day. While Kenny was ultimately responsible for the itinerary as far as deciding which races that he would be competing in for the season and all the logistics therein, as default Team Captain, Ripslinger called the shots when it came to how he preferred to run them. There were stage rehearsals, equipment testing for all of their pyrotechnics, lighting, and sound, and of course the painstaking process of deciding and editing track lists for background music. If there was anything that could compete for Ripslinger's passions for winning races and sex, it was music, and he was a stickler for what music should be played when he made his entrance on stage, his re-entrance after another victory, and then there was the background music that he wanted playing idly in the interim. Then of course, there was training.  
  
"Okay, and exhale..."  
  
Ripslinger, tubes attached at each of the twelve exhausts that lined either side of his nose, forcefully released the breath he'd been holding, condensation building up on the sides of the collection bottles at the end of each one.  
  
"Very good," said Porter, removing the tubes and bottles and then replacing them with new ones. "Okay, now, with engine this time."  
  
The two brothers watched, off to the side as the older forklift went about pulling various fluids and examining one thing or another. The big P-51 was in the midst of a full-scale exam and diagnostic evaluation, checking everything from top to bottom, focusing especially on his eyes, reflexes, respiratory function and capacity, hydraulic system and tone, and lastly his engine system. Another would be performed just prior to opening day for the racing season, which was May 1st. They needed to get a baseline before beginning conditioning for the season. Identical pairs of gray eyes watched passively as all vials, swabs, and tubes were meticulously labeled and prepared, completely unknowing that they were next on the doctor's table, and so the two Zivkos looked a little bemused as Porter approached them.  
  
“Alright fellas, over here,” said Porter as he motioned them over.  
  
“What? Why us?” protested Ned although they both came over as asked.  
  
“Easy, boys,” Kenny said, “Training for racing can be just as tough as the racing itself. We want to make sure that you're at your best health.”  
  
“WE'RE going to be racing?!” Zed asked, looking completely mortified.  
  
“No, no,” the green pittie laughed, “Although I don't think you'd be half bad. But we still can't have our chasers go up without a through going over.”  
  
After passing their physicals, it was a short trip later to the Antech training complex. Ned and Zed stood off to the side of the finish line on the tarmac, watching as Ripslinger tested his control surfaces, engine fired up and puffing. The sun shown through the hazy February sky over the desert. It was dead silent out here; the massive engine of the racer hardly even echoed.  
  
"Okay," Kenny spoke through the CB radio. "Eight laps around at my signal."  
  
The P-51 nodded in acknowledgment, eyes shifting over to the green forklift. Kenny raised one of his tines, then raised it higher, making sure he and the plane had eye contact, then sharply dropped it. Ripslinger's engine roared up as he began his take off, the thunder quickly swallowed up by the quiet as he pulled up and away. The silence purveyed as he made his way around, turning and dropping his altitude as he lined himself up on his approached to the starting line. A faint, hearty humming could be heard, and then before they knew it, Ripslinger went roaring out over their heads and onto the course. As soon as his nose hit the starting point, Kenny started the stopwatch.

The first lap had been cleared. The brothers looked down at Kenny's stopwatch as he clicked it. [1min] [0.0sec], then they looked up and Ripslinger was already around the first turn and onto the straightaway for the next. As he crossed over the finish line again, Kenny clicked his stopwatch once more. Less than eight minutes later, it was time. Kenny led them both over to the finish line. Once the twins had comprehended that they weren't really being "chased", as they had first understood, they had been much more cooperative. At least at first.  
  
"Okay, guys, you're up. Just like we talked about."  
  
“No way, man, he's too fast,” Ned whined, visibly shaking as he hunkered down on his landing gear.  
  
“How do you know he's not going to just shred us?” Zed added.  
  
"He's not going to shred you," the pittie soothed, "Trust me. Everything's going to be fine; all you're doing is providing him a reference point. You know as well as I do he doesn't always know when to stop, so don't hold back. You're going to have to give it all you've got to get ahead of him, and then when you pull him up I want you to stay right on his two and ten-o'-clock and keep yourselves there so that he stays at his cruising speed for a little while to cool him out. Do you understand?"  
  
They were shaking, beyond nervous, but they did trust Kenny, who had been nothing but kind to them the entire time they'd been at Antech.  
  
“Okay,” they both nodded, still trembling.  
  
"Good," said Kenny, giving them each a pat of encouragement before backing away off the tarmac, just as the deep droning of Ripslinger's engine rose up in their hearing again. "Okay, boys, you'd better start your engines now."  
  
As the huge plane approached the last turn, the two Zivkos spooled up their engines and began their take offs. Gunning it, they quickly reached altitude and readied themselves to intercept him. They could hear him barreling down on on them and the ampullae on the rear halves of their bodies lit up like wildfire as it had that fateful day. He would be on them in two seconds. Then Kenny's voice broke through their panic on the radio.  
  
"Now! Ned, Zed, pull him up! Good boys! Pull him up!"  
  
Coming up on Zed's eight-o'-clock, Ripslinger began to deviate his course to the left to avoid him, only to find Ned there, and the little planes did just as they were told, and doggedly stuck to their positions like glue, guiding the larger plane to turn further and slow as they all rose up above racing altitude in formation. Kenny almost couldn't hold back a smile.  
  
After that first trial run, the forklift was in for another welcome surprise, as Ripslinger wanted them briefed and coached on actually coming along on tour whereas before he'd been adamantly against the idea, so now on top of Ripslinger's training, the twins were getting their own sessions separately to further condition their engines and sharpen their techniques as formal chasers. Kenny had never inwardly grinned so hard in his life, but that wasn't to say that the pittie didn't have the sense to not keep a certain amount of wariness toward the situation. Racing season was nothing short of choreographed chaos, especially when one toured around to several or even dozens of the different racing events over the span of it, and especially when you were Ripslinger, who ran his races more like a concert than a sporting event.  
  
Finally, the day came, after two nights of heavy rehearsals, for the last physical before tomorrow's opening season race at the Burbank-Bob Hope Airport. As per the norm, everyone had their hearing protection donned during engine testing, for, as Kenny put it, Ripslinger's engine was "louder than Satan's". After being cleared with a shining bills of health, Ripslinger, Ned, and Zed, flew for their first destination of the tour while the rest followed them on the ground. The next stop from there would be San Diego, where Kurtis would be providing transportation from location to location thereafter. The ground team set up their accommodations in the pits first thing upon arrival, as it would take the rest of the day and most of the night to set up the remainder of their operation from the stage to the actual pit behind it where the star racer would be prepped before each race, and recovered and repaired if needed after.  
  
The big day started at 6 AM sharp the next morning for qualifying runs, the fastest of up to three solo laps around the course, of which Ripslinger of course ended up getting first pole. As the sun began to rise higher, the vendors finished prepping all their wares, the miasmatic smell of street food wafted through the air, and as the spectators began to arrive, the air was a din of loud cheers, booming music, and roaring engines. The Antech tents were soundproofed, and so Ned and Zed sat in the quiet. They had both poked their noses out and were assaulted with the thunderous noise. The green and black P-51, for his part, was currently standing behind the curtains that opened out onto the stage, waiting to be announced as the bass of "Hypnotize" began booming from the stacks of amplifiers on either side.

"And now, presenting the super-star Unlimited racer, let's hear it, for Ripslinger!”  
  
The roar of the crowd skyrocketed in volume and intensity, nearly drowning out the bellowing of Ripslinger's engine as the popcorn exploded behind him, his revving blowing away the smoke that lazed over the floor of the stage. The brothers watched him work the crowd with a charisma that they didn't know he had, and they were eating up every bit of it. They never would have guessed by all their previous interactions that he had it him to be so social, but then after the rally was over and it was time to take their positions, it was back to his usual detached misanthropy. Kenny took Ned and Zed up to the Antech box where they waited with several of the crew as Kenny left to go tow Ripslinger out onto the runway. The two Zivkos had never actually watched an air race, had never actually seen Ripslinger race in one, and after being present at so many of his training sessions were genuinely interested to see what was going to happen. Their eyes were focused with the rest of the crew on the tunnel of interconnected tents were the racers were waiting to be called, then the booming echo of the race announcer rang out.  
  
“May we have the Unlimited Class on the runway, please.”  
  
And so they watched as the racers filed out to the roar of the crowd, majestic warbirds, lacquers flashing in the sun. They could see Kenny down below towing Ripslinger into his pole, and they looked at the other racers with their pitties, seemingly blind and deaf to it all, however they could still see the tell-tale signs of hooded nervousness as they would steal glances over to the checker-marked P-51, while Ripslinger paid no mind to them at all. Then after everyone cleared off as the racers were given the command to start their engines, Kenny went back up to the Antech box to sit with Ned and Zed. The noise down below died down as the last of the competitors took to the sky and were quickly out of sight. Dead silence purveyed over the stadium now. Everyone watched and waited, and soon enough the bass-ey droning of powerful engines began to be heard, growing before suddenly they all came flying out over the heads of the spectators, and the screaming and cheering was back in full force as the announcer crowed.  
  
“And we have a race, lading and gentlemen!”  
  
The brothers had never heard so much noise in their lives. The race went off as they expected, with Ripslinger effortlessly taking first place, but it was still entertaining nonetheless, especially the way the other racers struggled for their very lives just to try to keep up. And it wasn't over. Ripslinger once again entertained thunderous crowds on stage again after his victory, inviting every single last one of them up to a party in the hotel ballroom that continued into the early hours of the next morning. And that's how it went. Race after race, party after party, with hardly any time to sleep and even less time to eat.  
  
Few racers indeed had it in them to maintain such an exhaustive schedule, where they may push their frames and engines from within a fraction of their breaking points and then in the next instant be entertaining swelling crowds with extravagant parties at grand venues. It was taking lights, cameras; action! to the extreme, and that was exactly how Ripslinger wanted it, nothing less. Ned and Zed didn't have to race, but would they be able to keep up, all the same? To that, our two Zivko brothers would have laughed raucously; it's as if they'd forgotten that they were Mexican. Sure, they were caught off guard somewhat at the sight of the huge crowds and the lights and music of the rally before the first race that they'd witnessed, and yes, they'd balked a bit at the sheer, unadulterated excess and debauchery of the after-party, but it was all very short-lived. The boys nose-dived right into it all; let no one say that they weren't gamers, a quality that impressed Ripslinger yet again at how fast they adapted and were able to keep pace more than adequately. So impressed in fact, that by next season he wanted them formally trained as official racers on team Antech. The company would be able to compete in more air sports, and would be undergoing a name change.  
  
The brothers simply could not believe how their luck had turned around. A year ago they thought their lives were over. Now they were practically royalty, living large with more money, extravagance, and women than they had ever imagined in their wildest dreams. They'd come so far from their beginnings and for once in their lives they now had it all. The season was over, and Ned and Zed were currently out flying, sparring and performing jubilant aerobatics over the city in celebration. Ripslinger was not with them. They didn't need him to babysit them anymore. They weren't going anywhere. Antech, soon to be RPX, was now their home sweet home. The name change would be officially announced next racing season, when they would be official air racers.  
  
“This is livin', eh bro?” Zed called as he flew up into an inverted loop.  
  
“Hell yeah!” Ned answered gleefully, performing a fantastic wingover dive. “If we got swarmed that much by all those ten out of ten smokin' hot chicas just by being chasers, imagine how much pussy we'll get as real racers!”  
  
“Haha yeah!” Zed agreed, shooting back up into a loop again.  
  
They dove and span and plunged, until brief flashes of light caught Ned's attention. Far out on the horizon, over the desert, a wall of thick black clouds were swirling.  
  
“Hey, Shadow! Check it out!” Ned called.  
  
Zed followed his line of sight, then grinned.  
  
“I dare you,” he said.  
  
“You're on, bro, let's go!”  
  
And the twin Zivkos bolted straight toward the storm. Lightning tag was generally a game played by large airliners and freighters, the rules being simple. Get hit and you're out. It hurts like hell but planes that large for the most part are able to shrug off such strikes. Smaller planes on the other hand...  
  
Heavy rain pelted their frames as they chased one another, hooting and hollering at every flash of lightning, the thunderclap drowning out their calls. They laughed in energized nervousness at every close call. And then the inevitable happened. A bolt of lighting jetted down like a javelin, striking Zed on the nose. Time seemed to sit still as it scorched through his frame and exited out of the top of his tail in an instant, a great, deafening crash of thunder breaking the world apart as he began to fall out of the sky.  
  
Ned followed him down, diving in a blind, horror-filled panic as his brother plummeted toward the ground, utterly helpless to do anything to stop him from hitting the hard-packed desert floor. He was going to watch his brother die. But then, a large, green and black shape flew in out of nowhere. It was Ripslinger. Ned watched in shock as the P-51 intercepted Zed as he fell, breaking his fall a mere thirty or forty feet from the ground and sending them both crashing into it. As Ned came in for a landing, Ripslinger staggered to his landing gear from where he'd slid to a stop, his prop blades mangled and his frame horribly dented all down his belly and his back. He fought to stay up as his sight reeled. He shook himself, finally gaining balance back as he heard Ned crying in anguish where Zed had fallen. Grimacing a bit before snorting through the terrible pain that wracked his body as he moved, he began to gingerly taxi his way over to them.   
  
“No, mi sombra, porque...” Ned wailed in misery, pressing his nose to Zed's, “No me dejes, hermano...”  
  
Ripslinger came to a stop before where Zed lay on the ground. His frame was just as badly beat up as his own, along with bearing awful scorch marks where the bolt of lighting entered and exited, and oil dripped and leaked from his intakes. And he was not breathing. The checker-marked plane looked over at Ned, who had his belly to the ground as he wept inconsolably, then back at Zed, his ever present haughty expression never changing. He leaned down, and gave the still plane a rough shove with his nose. Getting no response, he then shoveled in underneath Zed's frame, picking him up off the ground and then letting him drop, and at the impact, he took a single, gasping breath. Then another.  
  
“¡Si!” Ned cried, “¡Oh Dios, sigue respirando mi hermano!”  
  
Zed kept taking gasping, shallow breaths. Then after what felt like an eternity, he slowly opened his eyes. He did not move or speak, just lay there as he looked around. In a few minutes, Kenny, along with Porter and the rest of the medical team, arrived to assess the two planes, large trailers being brought out to the desert later to take them all back to headquarters.  
  
It was late into the night by the time repairs were finished. Ned would not leave his position pressing the side of his nose against his brother's as he was treated. He still couldn't really move. Ripslinger's repairs finalized, he went over to the two Zivkos, each one looking up as he approached. His expression still had not changed as he looked down at them.  
  
“Don't do that again,” he said, his tone having barely any inflection, and without another word slew his great body around and left the medical bay, leaving the brothers staring after him.  
  
He went back up to the top of the building to the penthouse, where he rolled over to his sleeping mat and lay down on it, still feeling quite sore. He pulled in a deep sigh through his mouth, letting it back out through his exhausts, eyes staring dully straight ahead.

It was a while before Ned and Zed were taken up to the penthouse. Ned stayed on Zed's sleeping mat with him, still refusing to leave his side. He fell asleep quickly after the stress of the last few hours, but Zed remained awake, staring over at Ripslinger as he lay on his sleeping mat with his tail turned toward them. After a short while, he shakily got to his landing gear, his movements stiff and stuttering. Ripslinger was also still awake, but did not move when he felt Zed approaching. He stopped, staring softly at the much larger plane for a moment before moving again, clambering up onto the sleeping mat without any fear or hesitation and nuzzling him. And Ripslinger did not growl, or snarl, or even push him away, but actually nuzzled back with a barely there smile. Then Ned was at his other side, nuzzling and purring. Ripslinger pressed back against him, and his engine began to rumble. The sound was vaguely threatening, not at all reflective of his actions, but the twins did not falter in their rubbing and licking as he continued his revving rumbles. The three planes cuddled together all on Ripslinger's sleeping mat, where they slept peacefully through the night.


End file.
